


Until the Dark is Light Again

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Prostitution, Sex Work, slut-shaming and some misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not Draco’s home. This is where Draco fucks for money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the Dark is Light Again

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [](http://hp-sexstars.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_sexstars**](http://hp-sexstars.livejournal.com/). It was my first real attempt at present tense, and probably my only one. :) Huge thanks to [](http://secretsalex.livejournal.com/profile)[**secretsalex**](http://secretsalex.livejournal.com/), [](http://lokifan.livejournal.com/profile)[**lokifan**](http://lokifan.livejournal.com/), and [](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/profile)[**pandafoot105**](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/) for the awesome beta work. <3

 

Draco tidies the room before his first client. He doesn’t need to; the room is nearly immaculate already. Draco is very particular, though, and he doesn’t like anyone seeing him when he isn’t prepared, when everything isn’t just so.

It is not a lush room, but nor is it spare. It contains exactly everything it needs and nothing more. There is an attached bathroom, which is his alone. There is an additional bathroom in the main part of the flat for his guests. There is a kitchenette, a small dining room and living room, a balcony. This is not Draco’s home. This is where Draco fucks for money.

His home is beautiful, lavish and expertly decorated. There are pictures and paintings on the walls; there has been fire in the hearth.

He maintains the second living space because he lives two lives. He cannot bear the thought of letting those people into his real home—and he rents a flat instead of a room because he doesn’t want anyone knowing this isn’t his real home. Clients would begin to think they have a right to him, to his life. They’d ask to visit him at home, where they aren’t allowed. They’ll become upset that he’s lied to them, that his life is not as they picture it.

Fucking is the easiest part of the job. It’s the acting that wears him down.

On the bureau there is cologne. He only wears it if he knows the client is single. He wears it now. He has been given many gifts over the years, but the only thing he keeps out is an ornate antique trinket box. Empty.

He usually wears a silk robe to greet guests, or just his pants, or nothing at all. But for Harry he wears trousers and a grey dress shirt, cuff links, a belt. For Harry, it is all real.

The spelled door chime goes off, a pleasant sound that would fill him with shame and horror if Draco were to hear it anywhere else, in his real life. Now, it brings blood to his cock, a Pavlovian response honed by Harry alone.

He opens the door, casual, indifferent. Harry is nervous though he needn’t be; Draco couldn’t count the times he’s stood there, looking uncertain but eager.

“Hi,” Harry says. “Can I come in?”

One day Draco wants to say no, you can’t come in. Stay out, stay away, forever. And it isn’t just because Harry pays well that Draco lets him in, though it helps. Or maybe it makes things worse, Draco isn’t sure.

“You look good,” Draco says. He finds he doesn’t have to act so much with Harry, doesn’t have to pretend. He wishes he did.

“Er, thanks.” Harry grins. “I can’t believe it’s only been a week.” He makes his way to the bedroom as if it is his own. Draco frowns but follows.

In the bedroom, Harry is different. His smile is flint, his movements sure. “Get undressed.”

Draco looks at the trinket box, pointedly.

Harry’s lips get tight and the look in his eyes dims. He puts the money in the box; Draco never needs to count it. He closes the lid and begins to unbutton his shirt. Harry doesn’t look away. He sits on the bed, facing Draco, watching.

Draco sees him but doesn’t. He’s thinking. Once his shirt is off, cufflinks clinked on the bureau, he starts with his belt. Harry is hungry, he can tell. A week is too long. Draco is practised at undressing, he does it several times a day, but he pretends to falter on his trouser snaps, grins self-consciously when his sock won’t tug off smoothly. Harry watches but doesn’t say anything.

“Suck me,” Harry says in that new rough voice of his. He edges forward on the bed and spreads his legs but doesn’t release his cock. That’s Draco’s job.

Draco kneels before Harry. He tugs opens his trousers and pulls out his dick. Harry’s hands are on the bed behind him, he’s leaning back a little, always watching. His cock is impressive, wide enough at the base to make giving head a challenge, flaring at the head, very sensitive around the fraenulum as Draco has discovered. Draco begins by teasing. Harry doesn’t like too much of a tease, but Draco does it anyway, almost a challenge, to remind him that Draco’s _other_ clients might like this and Draco just forgot Harry’s own preference. He doesn’t know why he does these things. He likes Harry.

Harry pushes down on the back of his head, always impatient. Draco takes the hint and sucks him in earnest, getting his spit everywhere, using one hand on the shaft and the other on Harry’s ballsac, tugging a little at the skin, drawing over it with short fingernails.

“Fuck, can’t you blow me like you _don’t_ do it ten times a day?” Harry snaps. He slaps Draco’s cheek, not hard—Draco does have his prick in his mouth, after all—but enough to sting Draco’s pride.

Draco regroups and comes off Harry’s cock, recalling back to his unpractised days, back when he and Blaise had first tried it out behind closed bedcurtains, messy and enthusiastic. He puts only the head of Harry into his mouth, focusing on that, his hand jerking a little on the shaft, not gliding smoothly. He doesn’t know what to do, what Harry wants.

“That’s better, not so whorish. That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

Draco shakes his head, mindful of his mouthful. It isn’t long before Harry pushes him back. He tries to look in control but his cheeks are pink and Draco’s efforts haven’t gone to waste.

“Get on the bed.”

Draco does, glad to be back in his element. He sits back against the headboard, conscious of his erection. Many clients laugh when he gets hard, as if they’ve proved something. Not Harry. Harry doesn’t like it when he isn’t hard, needs it for some reason.

“No, on your back, flat out. And open your legs. I want to see what I’m buying.”

Draco can feel heat on his cheeks but he does as he’s told, scooting down and bringing his knees up and apart. Harry moves between them. He grips Draco’s cock and strokes it a couple times before dropping it. He examines Draco’s balls, tugging on them, pulling them away from his body until Draco can’t stand it and jerks his legs closed in protest. Harry releases them and pushes Draco’s knees open again, wider this time. He presses a knuckle against Draco’s perineum, grinding until he strikes Draco’s prostate, making him jump a little.

“Like that?” Harry asks.

Draco nods. He feels on display in an unfamiliar way, as if he might actually be found wanting when Harry’s through.

Harry smiles and puts a finger in his mouth. Draco watches, nervous in a strange way. He wants Harry, that much he can’t deny. He wants to please him, to make him happy, to earn the money Harry lavishes on him, to earn another visit, more time. He groans when Harry’s finger enters him, and it’s not the practised groan of a seasoned prostitute but something real from deep inside him.

Harry glances at his face, seeming surprised, almost looking for something. Draco doesn’t know what he wants, closes his eyes in case Harry decides whatever it is just isn’t there.

“I don’t want to stretch you,” Harry says, withdrawing his finger. “Will you use the alarm if I hurt you, if you bleed?”

Harry knows about the alarm. A short sentence-- _your session is over_ \--sets it off. The client is forcibly ejected from the flat and banned from returning. In addition, it removes any money that might be on their person up to the amount they’ve already paid, and puts their name on a list that all sex workers have access to.

Draco doesn’t know why he told Harry.

“No,” he says, and it’s the truth. Harry can do anything to him; Draco wants him to.

“That’s a good little whore. Your john knows what’s best for you, don’t I?”

Draco nods, trembling now. He wonders if Harry will really damage him, make him wish he hadn’t said that about the alarm.

Harry grabs Draco’s hip, fingers digging in, and turns Draco over roughly, onto his stomach. Draco shouts as his cock stabs the bed, adjusting himself quickly. He tries to get up on his hands and knees, but Harry holds him down.

“Like that,” Harry says. “Like you were fucking dead.”

Draco shivers and doesn’t resist and Harry straddles Draco’s thighs. He pries open Draco’s arsecheeks, spits on his hole, shoves a thumb inside.

“Would anyone miss you, hooker?” Harry demands. “If one of your customers killed you? It’s bound to happen, you know. Eventually.”

There is a strange tone in Harry’s voice. He’s angry but there’s more to it, it runs deeper than that.

“You’d miss me,” Draco ventures, disturbed at the way Harry’s talking. Harry is the only one that makes him feel dirty.

Harry is quiet for a moment. He removes his thumb and Draco feels him lining up his cock. “Maybe for a few months,” he admits. “But how do you miss a hole?” He shoves his cock in, brutal, without sympathy. He must have lubed it but still it only slides halfway before Harry has to withdraw and slam in again, and again, until the widest part of his dick is spearing Draco and Draco can only clench the bedsheets and breathe.

“Not just a hole,” Draco says into the bed. He doubts Harry hears him; he doesn’t want Harry to. He doesn’t care what his clients think of him. He feels nothing for them—neither disgust nor pity. The clients remember him; the only thing he remembers is that he is paid.

Except for Harry.

“A thoughtless, reckless, faceless little fuckhole.” Harry braces himself on the bed, hands beneath Draco’s armpits. Because of the position, with Draco’s legs closed, he isn’t going as deep as he could and Draco is grateful. “A slut who turned whore because it’s the only job he could get.” Harry pinches the underside of Draco’s arm, twisting the skin until Draco cries out. “Is that it, whore? Couldn’t get a desk job at the Ministry? How come?” He pinches Draco again, on the skin of his forearm this time, over the fading but visible Dark Mark.

“Harry…” When he’d worried about needing the alarm because Harry might hurt him, he never thought it would be like _this_.

“Draco,” Harry says back, but it isn’t needling, it isn’t mocking. “Please.” It sounds an awful lot like begging and Draco doesn’t know how to react.

Despite Harry’s cruelty Draco’s erection hasn’t flagged, and Harry’s thrusts are driving it against the sheets, the friction rough but not unwanted, and when Harry grabs Draco’s hands and holds them down against the bed, Draco begins to react, to push back into the pounding, to take Harry’s fucking like the whore he is.

He needs it like this. He arches his back and it’s enough to send Harry’s cock over his prostate, and though he aches and throbs he holds the position, desperate to come. When he does, it feels final, as if everything he ever had to offer was being ripped out of him. He holds Harry’s hand, tight; he doesn’t want Harry to ever finish.

But Harry does, grunting against Draco’s ear, squeezing his hands until it feels like his knuckles will pop. He presses inside, so deep, and Draco can feel him there, feel his come. He’s not used to the sensation; he makes his clients wear condoms in addition to the protection spell, all but Harry.

Everything’s different with Harry, for Harry.

“Draco, please,” Harry says again, penetrating Draco’s bliss.

“Stop it,” he says, eyes shut tight.

Harry sighs and pulls out. He touches Draco’s hole tenderly. Draco can tell there’s no damage; he wonders if Harry wishes there were, wishes he’d put Draco out of commission for the day, forever.

They dress in silence, Draco wishing he could don his silk robe instead of having to dress fully, knowing he was just going to shower anyway. But Harry needed the illusion.

Outside the bedroom, Harry stops. He turns to Draco, and Draco thinks, _please, not today, Harry, I can’t bear it today,_ just as he thinks every time.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says, not looking at Draco. “This has to be the last time.”

Draco’s heart hitches. He hadn’t expected that. God, what could he do, how to make Harry stay?

“I need you.”

Harry shakes his head. “You need… something, I know. But it isn’t me. _That_ isn’t me.”

Draco steps closer, touches his arm. Harry looks so torn, so very young. Had Draco ever been young, felt young? “I know. I know you hate that. But… I need it so badly.”

“You can find someone else, someone who wants to… to hurt you like that.”

Draco sighs. “It has to be you.”

Harry tugs him in, presses their chests together, rests his forehead on Draco’s. He touches him, so tenderly, it hurts Draco more than any violence he could impart. “I love you,” Harry says, and his voice sounds rough, raw.

“Don’t go,” Draco whispers. _Keep punishing me, keep hurting me, keep wrecking me for everyone else until I’m ready to stop everything, to stop it all._

Harry makes a choking noise and Draco knows he’s crying. “It’s not supposed to hurt like this,” Harry says. A weird laugh leaves him. “But it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Harry, please,” Draco says, one last plea, one last offer.

“Next week,” Harry says, finally. One last chance.

 

 

The end.


End file.
